Steel
by Chaosisalightsleeper
Summary: The battle for Icecrown.


**I do not own Warcraft.**

Steel

_Malice_.

Illidan Stormrage felt its approach, heralding the coming of his antagonist. It was a forbidding darkness that now moved to enclose him; an abyss of rage so deep it was outside even his extended awareness.

Drawn to its hollow resonance, he sensed the voracity of invasive presence. It was power—in its grimmest, most perfected form—and as such, it beguiled him, inciting the wildness, the _appetite_ that burned within him.

The tall, powerful shape that now confronted him was human, though indistinct in the fading light and subtly changed in transformation.

What precisely his opponent had become, the demon hunter was uncertain; but as he awaited their imminent conflict, Illidan knew he stood upon the very threshold of losing everything he valued in himself. And he had already lost so much in his quest for power.

Upon the unearthly face of his foe was the faint suggestion of a knowing smile as he tilted his head into the keening wind that rose, jagged with ice, at his bidding; and Illidan suffered a chill certainty that his needs—his most unspeakable desires—were transparent to this other who watched and judged him. Cold, ruthless eyes, as unfeeling as the glacial waste, invited him to his ruin.

This fallen one had forsaken all for the power that now ruled him. Yet, what had he gained, but a monster's kingdom? Reshaped in the twisted dark of fiendish deeds perpetrated without remorse, the countless shades of a cruelly broken people did not move him. Nor was he haunted by the ghost of a murdered father who had received him gladly upon his return, only to be struck down by a pitiless, changeling's hand. Despised and feared, denounced by life, what indeed had laired itself behind this human guise, if not the implacable face of death, itself.

Once loved by the Light, he was now a creature of midnight and ice, an artifact of grim Northrend, its creation, made manifest. Timeless, deathless wrath had found its completion at last.

A thing that lives in shadow, Illidan knew, will shun the light, and seek to conceal itself; but this dark power sought no secrecy, no hiding mask. He had stepped from Shadow, bringing it with him, for a coming, perpetual night.

And when the specter advanced, bringing the savage chill, it came to engulf the ancient hunter, freezing him with the cold promise of the ice and its endless desolation.

"They hate you now. _The_ _living_. They curse your name," Illidan said, hoping for some aching remnant of humanity to wound. Seeking weakness where none could abide.

"Not living long," was the emotionless reply. "Stand aside, elf, or feed this hungry blade. Cross me, and I will destroy you."

Illidan raised his blades in contest, _"You are not prepared,"_ he growled and the wind boomed its bitter mockery.

"I have never been _more_ prepared," was the certain answer, as the dark knight took his swift offensive, raising the lambent sword, and moving to close the frozen space between them with cold intent, with driven grace.

He owned the ice, a possession taken and shaped by his command, as the sword, too, seemed a living, other aspect of his will. And he brought the blade to purpose in a staggering strike, stunning the demon hunter with the pure force of his might. He was more than human now, in his will, his power, and in his resolve. It was as if he were, himself, steel—the heart and the mind of the blade; they had become _one_, in deadly accord.

The steel—altered by the energies that now animated it—hissed a lethal smoke as it sliced through the frigid air; and the brutal, elemental wind shrieked across that razor edge as it came again and again, flickering and ghostly in the half-light. Steel resounded, a ringing cry for blood, as Illidan met and countered the blows. Threads of lightning coruscated down the full lengths of the igniting blades as their dark powers collided, each seeking dominion over the other.

The two combatants faced each other—ice and fire—weapons locked in impasse. Illidan shoved his attacker back with all his strength. There was a burning world of rage in those ferocious eyes. Hate, vengeance, savagery—enough to consume all life.

Relentless, the knight bounded back, renewing his assault with furious, double-handed blows that carried a matchless force of contention. The pale, hungry eyes slid past him, to the waiting gate, impatient for the power beyond it.

_'He must be stopped...'_ Illidan thought desperately, chilled by the awareness that this man had set aside _everything_ to take the full weight of whatever assumption awaited him—and then to move, without hesitation, on its commandments.

A rising storm was coming—_to breach the world_—a roaring tempest of ice and death that would bring it down, screaming, to merciless annihilation.

And when it ended, leaving him scarred and banished, his dark, magical blood painting the ice, Illidan knew.

It was _life_ that was not prepared.


End file.
